It became much clearer when he began his conversations the next day. They were judicial proceedings, to be sure, but they were called conversations and in fact that’s how they were conducted. As slaves, they had no rights, but it was always legitimate for slaves to ask for a conversation with a nearby Wallman. If the Wallman then decided to make decisions in the name of the Lord of Walls, well, that was always his option. And if there were any reprisals against a slave whose conversation might have led to unhappy results for someone, then they could be sure that the wrath of the Lord of Walls would come down on them. For it was not right for one slave to take vengeance on another for merely bringing information before the Lord of Walls or his closest servants.

It was a system that begged to become corrupt, Rigg saw at once. He would have been surprised, though, if someone had come to him with the offer of a bribe. The Lord of Walls, after all, was completely incorruptible himself, and would not be susceptible to flattery or deception by his underlings. If someone was certified as a Wallman, it was because the expendable Gathuuriex had found him to be intelligent, morally decent, and completely honest. Rigg wondered if he would have measured up to Gathuuriex’s scrutiny, if he had attempted to reach this lofty office through the normal means.

But it was not only because Gathuuriex and his men could not be bribed—it’s that every single person would have to account to their owner for what they did with their money. Or so it was, at least, in theory. This first set of conversations was being held in a part of the land that was clearly not held to the same standards as the crisply tended fields and shops they had passed through at first. Everything was just a little raggedy. People moved with less of a hurry. Rigg wondered if they worked with a kind of laziness or carelessness, too. Presumably he had been given the owner’s bedroom, as at any of the relay stations. There was running water in the privy room, which Rigg had come to expect in Gathuurifold. But the hot-water knob merely spun, as if it were decorative.

Which it turned out to be. The owner explained that he didn’t feel much of a need for hot water in the washbasin in the privy room—only the bathroom needed it, and that was downstairs, a single tub to serve the household. “They make the faucets to fit the specifications of richer folk than we are, sir. So I could only buy one with a cold and a hot. But there’s nothing to connect the hot one to, so it spins.”

It all made perfect sense. It just felt . . . if not slovenly, then slapdash.